The W Hypothesis
by EXY.Uli
Summary: The story begins with a photograph of a woman, a case folder labelled "W", and a child's bout of curiosity. (1890's Au & Reinterpretation of Jack the Ripper) Adlock.
1. Prologue

**Summary:** The story begins with a photograph of a woman, a case folder labelled W, and a child's bout of curiosity. (1890's!Au & alternate interpretation of Jack the Ripper)

**Disclaimer:** If I owed Sherlock BBC I'd be rich, which clearly I'm not (yet). I have no wish to owe anything related to Jack the Ripper

* * *

**Prologue**

There are two infamous phenomena in late nineteenth century England that are forever remembered and debated by historians and criminologists: Jack the Ripper and Sherlock Holmes.

The former is the title given to a London serial killer renowned for his brutal murders and mutilations of impoverished prostitutes in 1888. The latter is a self-made consulting detective for the Scotland Yard, who some would claim was the greatest investigator in British history.

However, this is not a tale of how the clever detective captured "the First Serial killer". If I were to tell that story, I'm afraid it would be as dull as it is disappointing, for officially, the Whitechapel Murders remains to this day a mystery, and its files are stored away somewhere deep within the legal archives. Unofficially though, the truth about the Ripper is no secret to either the consulting detective or the handful of people granted the highest level of clearance in the British government. So the case, in actuality, is solved, down to the very last detail, though what is revealed proved very far from the expected. Be warned that in the narrative I am about to recount there are, in fact, no desperate prostitutes trading sex for food, and unsurprisingly, more than one murderous psychopaths.

The story begins not in 1888, but in 1896, with a photograph of a woman, a case folder labelled W, and a child's bout of curiosity. The first location of interest is not the disease-ridden streets of the east London slum, but a warm, dimly lit third floor bedroom of 221B Baker Street, belonging to wily seven year old boy.

Said boy was born into this world late in the summer of 1889, to the great consulting detective mentioned earlier and his wife Molly, née Hooper. The neighbours would tell you that he came with the thunderstorm, riding on the howling easterly wind and midst the raging downpour. Mrs. Hudson, the housekeeper, said that his eyes were silver like lightning and his soft baby skin was washed pale by the rain. The church christened him James Aodhán [AY- den, meaning: fire] Holmes, but his father calls him Hamish.

Nothing about James is simple or easy. Precocious, blunt, and armed a brutal cleverness that was more troublesome than endearing, he was as difficult to raise as any child could be. Even from a young age, he exceeded at rules-breaking, but he always did so wittily, thoughtfully, half-cloaked under the pretense of guileless innocence. It'd seem what he craves more than the adrenaline and the thrill of committing the act, is the bone-deep satisfaction of getting away with it. There is a deviousness to him that doesn't just come from his father, an innate quality which no firm hand or scolding could force out of the boy.

Lord Mycroft Holmes, James' uncle, once said coincidence doesn't exist, because the universe is rarely so lazy. There are exactly one hundred and seventeen case files in Sherlock's study, of which one hundred and sixteen are neatly cataloged by the detective, available on the shelves for his son to browse and challenge himself. The remaining case file, the W dossier, is buried underneath a piles of paper and trinkets in one of the locket drawers of Sherlock desk, clearly unintended for the prying eyes of a nosy seven year old. And yet, it is this exact file that James finds worthy of his attention.

Contrary to some later rumours, the W dossier is not Sherlock's secret file on the Whitechapel Murder, but a thin meager folder, containing only a couple of insignificant statements and a client profile. The focus of James' fascination is not the case itself, but a picture of a woman clipped on the inside. Being a perceptive child who adores his father, James is thoroughly familiar with Sherlock's habits and practices, and he knows that his father loves to collect photographic evidence of the cases as a source of visual stimulus to his deduction process – bodies of the victims, crime scenes, articles of clothing, etc. - but he never keeps pictures of the clients themselves.

"The Woman" is the only exception.

A dozens things could be deduced about sentiment based on this fact alone, but James does not make that leap. Instead, he is distracted by the quickening of his own heartbeat as he stares longer into the eyes of the woman. He finds himself doing the irrational, wondering what colour those lovely almond shaped eyes could be, but somehow he already knows that they'd be blue like his own, varying to green or grey depending on the time of day. His hands shakes a little, for reasons he cannot fathom, and for the first time in his life, he is consumed by guilt as he pulls the picture from the clip holding it in place. Quietly, he places the file back where he found it and dashes upstairs to his room so he can inspect the picture some more.

That night, he slips the photograph between the pages of Dante's Purgatorio and hides it on the second highest level of the bookshelf above his bed and tells himself that tomorrow he'll return it to the dossier.

The next morning comes, and the photo remains in boy's custody.

As the days trickle on, James grows more and more afraid that his father has discovered what he'd done, though his fear is unwarranted, since Sherlock never reacts badly to anything clever. When the initial guilt and fear faded, James decides to share with his best friend Annabel Watson what he'd found and his ambitions to figure out who this woman is and why she is important enough for his father to keep a photograph of her. It is this ambition that leads James and Annabel into the dangerous realm of The Ripper, for unbeknownst to the two children, they have found a loose thread in the complicated entanglement of the Whitechapel Murders, unwittingly linking two pieces of the puzzle that no one in the initial investigation had thought of before.

One can appreciate how different the story would be had James opted for one of the other one hundred and sixteen cases, how much safer and easier it'd be if he just went to his father for answers, or searched a little deeper into that locket drawer. In that drawer, he would've found a small wooden box containing a series of coded telegraphs, sent to his father in the months preceding his birth, from a woman named Irene Adler.

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**A/N: **I'd like to believe that Nero Wolfe is canonically the son of Irene and Sherlock, but I think the name 'Nero' would be something he gives himself. "Aodhán" is an Irish name which means fire, which actually plays into why he'd later call himself Nero. Thank you for reading! Reviews are welcomed! :)


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One:**

James is delighted.

Early that morning, his Mummy made it known that she will be partaking in some adult womanly activity around town with Mrs. Watson, which requires her to be out for the majority of the afternoon. Since Father is away on a case, this leaves him in the sole custody of their housekeeper Mrs. Hudson. Such unsupervised freedom (because Mrs. Hudson favours a 2pm nap which James is sure to convince her to take and leave him to his own devices) is a rare treat indeed, and he could barely contain his excitement just thinking about it. Better yet, he gets to share this luxury with Annabel Watson.

It is just a little past noon, and with a belly full of biscuits and wicked ideas, James lurks in the staircase, eavesdropping on Molly's poor attempt to escape the burdensome duty of 'shopping' whilst being pushed and shoved by the combined effort of Mary and Mrs. Hudson. After Mummy is dragged off by Mrs. Watson, James puts on his most innocent face and recruits the aid of his right hand woman (er girl), sweet polite Annabel who can do no wrong, and the two of them effectively convince Martha to take a restful and deep nap.

We'll just be in our room reading, Mrs. Hudson. Annabel is with me, Mrs. Hudson, she's older, and she'll keep me in line. There is no need to worry, Mrs. Hudson. We won't sneak out or set the house on fire, Mrs. Hudson.

They wait half 'n hour until they are sure Martha has fallen soundly asleep before creeping slowly downstairs.

_The game_, James declares, i_s on!_

The two children tiptoe down the perilous creaky stairs, and navigate through the quiet plains of the sitting room until they reach the outskirts of the forbidden east wing, a realm never before explored by young detectives – Sherlock's private study.

"Is it locked?" Annabel looks to her friend, fearing that all their planning is for naught.

"Shouldn't be," responds James, tentatively trying for the handle. The door clicks open. Success.

"Now come on, I reckon we only have another twenty minutes before the beast awakes." The boy ushers his companion into the room and close the door behind her quietly.

"Mish, that's a rude thing to say about Mrs. Hudson!"

James puts on his most offended and shocked face, "I would never say such a mean thing to the sweet, lovely Mrs. Hudson. But she is not Mrs. Hudson. She's The Keeper, beastly enslaver of all that's exciting and adventurous."

Amused, Annabel giggles, a pearly laughter bubbling forth. James grins back, but shushing her kindly, "Keep it down, you'll wake her up!"

"My apologies. We can't have that." She looks around the messy study, "So what are we here for?"

"Going through some of Father's old cases. I want to find an interesting one to work on."

"But you know the interesting ones are always hard." Annabel points out, but not mean-spiritedly. Though clever as well, she is the more prudent of the two of them, and James likes that about her. Well... 'Appreciates' would be the better word (because he can't be known for saying that he likes her).

Annabel is staring back at him, eyes gleaming with interest. She is too careful and too aware of his pride to ask; she understands him. James likes that about her as well. Damn. He glances away, turning his face down to hide a blush. Curse his pale complexion!

"I found a particularly difficult one, so I thought perhaps you could help me. If you'd like," He adds.

Annabel grins, clearly pleased, "Well what are we waiting for?"

Needing no further encouragement, James gets to work. He expertly picklocks open one of Sherlock's private drawers and extracts from the bottom of the pile of junk a beige dossier. The letter W marks the otherwise unblemished cover in elegant cursive writing.

If Annabel finds her friend's early onset of criminal nature upsetting, she makes no show of it. Instead, she watches in fascination and awe, and perhaps a tiny bit of healthy envy for James's skills. You should know that despite what everyone thought of her, she was as much of an angel as Queen Victoria was a harlot. During all my years of employment in the web, I only became briefly acquainted with Annabel, but even so, I can confidently guarantee you that she made no less of an impression on me than James Holmes, or as he is later renowned, Nero Wolfe. Indeed, what is more dangerous than a wild wolf is one wearing the skin of a lamb.

Of course, the Annabel I know is not the child of eight sneaking into Sherlock Holmes's study, so I suppose it's only right to advise you to take what I say with a grain of salt. Though I try to gather material from diverse sources and first-person accounts, on the topic of Annabel's early psychology I really have very little insight other than what I've gathered from our short affiliation and snippets of details those intimately associated with her have revealed to me.

A colleague of mine once joked 'one does not simply speak of Annabel Watson.' Later it was rumoured that he blabbed quite a bit during a drunken outing (and come to think of it, I never saw him again after that).

But… I digress.

Presented with the W dossier, the child Watson accepts it graciously and with undiluted glee. Opening it up, her smile slowly fades, "The Woman. What woman? Mish, there is barely anything in here; and what messy handwriting! It doesn't belong to my father."

True, John is usually the one who writes the reports, and for a doctor his penmanship is surprisingly legible.

"Nor mine." James's voice is small. "That's not why I want you see the file, though."

Annabel looks up her friend, but he can't meet her eyes. He keeps one hand in his trousers' pocket, and his gaze fixed on the ground. If that isn't obvious enough, James chews on his bottom lips, a sure tell of his scrambled nerves.

"Whatever it is, you can tell me, Mish." The blonde shuts the case file and hands it back to her friend, "Now, why don't you show me what's in your pocket. How bad can it be?"

James nods, letting out a short sigh. He isn't an indecisive child by any stretch of the imagination, but he is a child, and just like any child, he is entitled to moments of imparity at the expense of his pride. James idolises his father, a man whom he deems superior to any other, and in his eyes Sherlock is infallible – one step down from God (which according to Sherlock is not real) – and therefore everything James strives to be.

His heart thumps in his chest, and he fumbles the photograph in his pocket.

_Father never falters. Father always knows what to do. Father has no fear. Father wouldn't be afraid to investigate this case._

Oh that poor boy, if he only knew how much turbulence (and painful sentiment) his father went through for the woman in the picture.

"I don't know who she is, but Father keeps a picture of her. He never keeps photographs of any of his clients." James pulls the old photograph from his pocket, with the same reluctance a lesser boy would feel towards a shiny new toy. Of course he's keen to show it off (look what I found, look what I have!) but it doesn't take away the fearful possibility that someone will steal it from him. Still, he trusts Annabel; Annabel would never let him down.

"Oh. She's…James, she's beautiful. Who do you think she is?"

Annabel's question swims in his head - oh the possibilities! - but at the same time a strange sense of dread weighs down in his stomach, and he has no idea why. He tells himself he won't be afraid of the answer because one should never hide from the truth.

"Mish - " Annabel frowns in concern, leaning forward to try to catch a look at his downcast face, "What is it? What's wrong? Do you…know her?"

Know her? No. James has never met this woman in his life, and seeing that she is dead (as indicated by the bolde D), he never will. Yet, there was a familiarity to that face that he cannot explain, and it gnaws at him, this vague sense of recognition.

"No, I don't know her," he says finally, "But I think it would be a fascinating endeavour to find out. There is a date on the case report. The 25th of April, 1888. Uncle John keeps journals of the cases, does he not? Father only has reports; if we want to have details, having a look at those journals would be a good place to start. What do you say, Watson? Do you want to take the case?"

Annabel hesitates, but not out of lack of interest or fear. Glancing down at the photograph, and then glancing back up at her friend, she blinks, trying to make sense of a tangled mass of thoughts. There is something there, buried within the mess, but everything is too clouded by her own excitement over the adventure James proposed. Still, it is there, that thought - she just has to find its end.

"Well?" James urges impatiently.

The corner of her lips curls up into a small, ambitious smile, John's smile, "Oh definitely."

The Old Nichol, situated between High Street, Shoreditch, and Bethnal Green, was regarded as the worst slum of East London. You won't see it anymore, since the government's de-slumming initiative began in 1898, but back then it was a cesspool filled not only with the poorest of the poor and unfortunate immigrants from all over, but with criminals, prostitutes, and the sort of people a young woman should not been seen affiliating with.

On the very day James and Annabel decide to embark on their investigation, two women meet in the heart of the Old Nichol, in one of the abandoned flats. One is disguised as a labourer. The other doesn't bother with a disguise.

"This is quite the safe house you've built," the dark-haired woman, one without a disguise, comments as she glanced around the space. Though not luxury, it is clean and tidy in every manner, not at all a reflection of its external and neighbourly conditions. Behind closed windows and doors, no one would think it'd be so… habitable.

Neither attempts to light a candle (that would be too obvious), but they are not people who are afraid of the dark.

"Old habits," the blonde replies dryly. "I'm surprised you don't have one."

"I don't need one, not when I've got people who do."

"What are you doing here? More importantly, why have you contacted me? I thought I made my stance very clear when we last spoke."

"It's been seven years, Allison. Aren't you curious where I've been all this time?"

Allison glares, "No. Though I'm sure there are two people who would love to know."

That cold remark silences her friend immediately. A shadow falls over her pale visage and she seems to shrink slightly in stature. When she speaks again, her tone loses some of its edge, "There is work to do in London. I need your help."

Allison refuses flatly, standing up to go. "No. I'm not that person anymore, Nina."

"Trust me, you'll want to be part of this, Cessie." A sealed envelope slides across the bed where Allison sits.

'Nina' watches her friend struggle with herself. The temptation to read what she brought here is strong. Choosing to give the other some privacy, she moves to stand by the balcony door and pulls out a cigarette. In the dark, the tip ignites like a tiny pulsing star, and with each sucking breath, draws closer to its supernova, a tragic but inevitable implosion. She holds the essence of its life in the cavity sealed by those thin, brutal lips, only for a moment or two, before expelling it out into the cold biting air. The cigarette shrivels within its slender mahogany shell, crumbling downwards with a slow, defeated finality. Under the moonlight, its glowing silver soul weaves the veil that shrouds its slayer, to whom it so willingly sacrificed itself, and though its body is now no more than ashes, she is eternal.

The blonde woman watches her younger companion stare callously at the cigarette stub, wonders if they will all become the tobacco between her teeth – set aflame and burnt through, like unwitting idiot who does not see their demise until their carcasses become the dirt beneath her heeled slippers.

"So," the raven-haired woman yanks the bud from the holder, tramples it with barely a passing thought, and replaces it with another. Quick, lustrous eyes flick to her silent companion, "What will it be?"

"I have my terms as well."

"I won't ask you compromise your daughter; you know that's not how I operate."

"Touch Annabel and I will destroy you, but…that wasn't who I was referring to."

A dent forms between those perfectly shaped eyebrows. She tilts her head as confusion flashes fleetingly across her pale features, but her befuddlement is quickly replaced by amusement and a smirk. "Oh my dear Cessie, you take me for the sentimental type."

"No, I only ask because I know you are not."

A pause.

"Nina, you're going to break her heart."

Irene Adler takes a long drag from her thin cigarette holder and turns away from her companion. She's not here to have a conversation about broken hearts.

"Is that a yes then?" Irene asks instead, the cigarette quickly losing flavour on her tongue. She feels mildly disgusted.

Allison walks until she stands directly before her friend, plucks the half smoked cigarette from its seat, and drags a long, heavy drag. "Welcome back to London."

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Thanks for reading! :)


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two:**

_Whoever thought it was a good idea to bring back tight lacing really ought to be committed for crimes of unnatural cruelty._ Molly shifts uncomfortably in her evening gown and flutters the silk fan in desperation. It doesn't help. _Dear god, Mrs. Hudson, you really did a number on me this time,_ she groans inwardly.

"Thirty-five and never been married! I can hardly believe Lord Aldenham would marry an old maid." A woman dressed in a gown of an alarming shade of pink with too many frills and lace chatters to her group of female peers. Molly doesn't really know her, and frankly is glad of it.

"I heard she is incredibly wealthy, an heiress of some new oil money from the colonies" another lady, who looks like she put an entire peacock in her hair, elaborates. "One can only imagine how unattractive she must be."

"Why would you say that?" a third chimes in.

_Because a pretty young woman of clean pedigree and wealth would have a plethora of suitors waiting to wed her._ _She could have her choosing,_ a sarcastic voice in Molly's head comments. _As if that's all it matters._

"It's obvious isn't?" the first woman explains. "Perhaps she's so ugly that no man would want to marry her even for her money."

Molly rolls her eyes. "I think you're giving men too much credit."

'Pink Chatterbox' shoots her an annoyed look and continues, 'Or worse, she's…one of them."

"One of whom?" the third woman, a young, innocent thing, asks.

'Peacock-hair' leans in closer, a conspiring glint in those beady black eyes, "A sapphist."

Before the other ladies could erupt into mindless excitements again, Molly speaks up, "Or perhaps she just has grander aspirations than husband, marriage, and children." _Such as a doctorate in medicine._ "For the record, the politically correct term is homosexual. Excuse me."She stands up from the plush chaise, and takes a glass of wine from a servant and marches off with a disgusted grimace.

Through the crowd, she spots her husband standing alone under the shadow of a marble pillar, brooding.

_You're better off forgetting your foolish thoughts, dear. You'll be the wife of a Holmes. They are one of the bluest bloodlines in England, do you understand? Granted, he is not a Lord like his brother, but you are not marrying a commoner, and your employment will reflect badly on your husband._ Her mother's – god rest her soul – reminder churns the contents of her stomach and sends shots of acid up her oesophagus. Those were the words she said to Molly as she laced her daughter into her wedding dress, and it rings in her mind now, completely drowning out the sound of the orchestra.

_You're dead Mother, you don't rule my life anymore. Molly grips her wine glass tighter._

_No of course not, you have a husband for that, _her mother would say.

_Sherlock is different._

_Maybe he is, but what of that Lord brother of his? Or his Lady mother? Would you really heartlessly shame your husband in front of his peers? _

_He wouldn't care._

_And you? Would you care?_

"There you are. I'm bored."

Drink in hand, Molly approaches Sherlock, who has all the look of agony of a person suffering. She opens her mouth, but the question doesn't come out.

"She is an American heiress with new money from oil in her mid-thirties, has never been married and therefore is unanimously considered an 'old maid' by her peers and through dubious deduction methods deemed unquestionably ugly. And if I have to hear anyone say another word about her, I will be sick," she says instead.

"I've tried, but it's just not possible." Sherlock groans.

"Tried what?"

"I've searched very earnestly for any small morsel of cares to give, but unfortunately there are none to be found. I do think it's medically plausible to actually die from lack of stimulation, and since this party is providing none, Molly I fear for my life."

Molly loops her arm though Sherlock's and together, the two Holmeses gaze at the party and the merry pandemonium in irritation.

At 70 years old the newly raised 1st Baron Aldenham, Lord Henry Gibbs, is rumoured to be wed. A landmark birthday, a peerage and a new fiancée - the coincidence of three wonderful occasions calls for one massive party. To Sherlock, this is all fine and dainty, that is, if he hadn't been asked - no, demanded - to attend.

_Mingle. Smile. Don't be yourself. _

Mycroft, that complete arse, Lord I-cannot-attend-so-as-my-brother-you-must-in-my-stead Holmes, is going to die a slow and painful death. Sherlock has planned at least five successful ways to murder his brother and get away with it. However, by the rate this evening is progressing, he harbours serious doubts that he'll survive long enough to complete his revenge.

Gods be good, he's never been so bored his entire life, and right now, he is seriously considering drowning himself in the wine barrel and leave his poor wife to deal with these pretentious, dull-minded blue bloods.

Molly, bless her beautiful open heart, took Mycroft's advice, and is all quaint charms and quiet English grace.

"Can we leave -"

"No love, here," she plucks another glass of wine from a caterer's plate and thrusts it into his hand. "Drink. It'll make you feel better. Trust me it's delicious."

Her own glass is empty. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. "How many have you had?"

"Not enough, since I'm pulling all the weight in our social engagements, and no, insults do not count as proactive conversation," Molly smiles teasingly, her doe brown eyes warm with affection and mirth. Alcohol makes her less fidgety and nervous. If it's even possible, Molly is probably the one of the few people on the planet for whom alcohol consumption and grace is positively correlated.

"Oh smile, Sherlock. They are not all that bad."

Sherlock sighs, noticing the slight rosiness of her cheeks that compliments her champagne coloured gown. She is lovely tonight, truly, truly lovely, and significantly less dull than the other females in the room, for which he is entirely grateful.

He watches Molly take another sip of her wine and put on a smile as people approach, "MP Gibbs, how lovely it is to see you again."

Aaron Gibbs, Lord Aldenham's eldest son, kisses Molly's silk-clad hand, "Mrs. Holmes, pleasure, as always." His grin widens at the man standing beside her. "Billy!"

Sherlock glowers.

"Oh cheer up, I only jest. Sherlock, how are you?" Aaron laughs, and they shake hands.

The Gibbses and the Holmeses have been firm friends for generations, ever since their grandfathers attended Cambridge together. Of Lord Aldenham's five sons, Aaron was the most intelligent and least pretentious, which makes him tolerable in Sherlock's books. He doesn't have many friends amongst his blue-blood peers (well he doesn't have that many friends, full stop), but Aaron can almost be considered one. Currently, he is the MP for the City of London, succeeding after his father's term in office.

"Aaron, please give my congratulations to Lord Aldenham, and on Mycroft's behalf. I'm afraid he couldn't be here tonight." Oh, look at him, playing nice and proper. Sherlock can see from his peripheral vision Molly biting down on her lips to try to keep a straight face.

Aaron takes it with a good-humoured chuckle. "Typical Mycroft." He turns to the people around him and does a round of introduction. Sherlock plasters on a smile and lets the information flow right past his head. He can't give a flying -

"Of course, there is more than one reason to celebrate tonight," A woman, Lady-whoever-of-whatever-the-fuck comments with a sly grin. "I hear your Father has found himself a new lady, and so soon after your mother's passing."

Aaron responds without a beat, "Ah yes. I am quite happy for Father; he deserves it. He is getting on in the years, and my brothers and I feel he should not be without companionship. After all, Mother has been gone for two years -"

"Two years, hardly long for a mourning period. Certainly not by Her Majesty's standard."

Sherlock throws the woman a furtive side-glance and almost snorts. Early forties, secret smoker, a sore at the corner of her mouth covered up by make-up, slightly swollen lymph nodes, wide sperth between her and the man who is sure to be her husband - Sherlock would recommend a lawyer for the divorce, a doctor for the syphilis, and maybe a big clean mirror so she can take a good look at herself and see the hypocrisy. It can be more easily ignored than syphilis but is no less destructive.

"Yes well, we cannot all possess the same level of fortitude as our Queen," Molly ventures, nodding towards Gibbs, "I'm sure she is lovely. Will we be meeting her soon? Lord Aldenham has yet to arrive."

"Father is held up at our family firm, but he has…"

Sherlock tunes out his peer as another man (Sir? Lord? Count? Cross-dresser, has a more dogs than one should, and needs to ease off the laudanum) makes a subtle comment about Anthony & Co's financial security in regards to Lord Aldenham's upcoming nuptials. He rolls his eyes; clearly this man has no more brain matter than his wife. Lord Aldenham's fiancée comes from money, big oil money as a matter of fact, so it's hard to say who is "gold-digging" who at the point. Sherlock drinks his wine, frowning as he realises it is finished, and hands it to a passing servant. For the umpteenth time, he curses Mycroft in his mind for dooming him to a night of high-class stupidity and conversations revolving around an America-

"Oh, here is Father."

Suddenly, Sherlock is grateful that he is not holding the crystal glass anymore because he would've dropped it. Descending down those marble stairs, clad in blood-red gown, black lace gloves, and diamonds is a woman he hasn't laid eyes on in seven years.

_I'm in Montenegro. Dinner?_

_…_

_Parenthood doesn't suit either of us, but apparently our biology doesn't seem to care._

_…_

_I heard you married. Congratulations! What is she like?_

_I'm not jealous. Well, maybe just a little._

_…_

_Your child won't stop kicking me. Tell him to stop. Or her._

_You never told me, which did you want?_

_…_

_Florida is amazing. Let's have dinner._

_…_

_Does she know about me? Don't tell her; you'll break her heart._

_Nothing has to change. You needn't be conflicted. The child will stay with me._

_…_

_If it's a boy, should we take Dr. Watson's advice?_

_…_

_I miss you._

_…_

_Early August. I'm in Toronto. Come. Please._

_…_

Pages of her telegraphs fly in mad torrents inside his mind palace, its edge sharp like razors, slicing his skin as he tries to push them back behind locked doors. He can't see; they are covering his eyes. He can't hear; they are muffling his ears. And there, in the center, he stands trapped in a merciless storm of memories and voices – her voice, every articulation, intonation and punctuation, like intangible silks of a spider's web, weaves a tight vice around the heart he claims not to have.

_He was born of the fire._

_Goodbye Mr. Holmes._

Since Irene had fled London in 1888, she had sent him a total of 9 encoded telegraphs. The last message from her was a hand written note left in the care of a newly graduated medical student named Julia Ogden from Toronto, to whom she entrusted their newborn son. He'd been on his way to see them…

…Hamish was a tiny, wrinkled thing when Sherlock found him, but he cried with all the gusto fuelled by the heartbreak and desperation of a motherless child.

_How can you leave him? Could you not see his perfection? Did you not gaze into his eyes and see that they are yours?_

Seven years, and not word or a hint of Irene's whereabouts – no signs of life nor messages of death. When he launched himself and Moriarty off the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, part of him had felt as though he were avenging her, even when her death was unconfirmed. During his three-year exile he searched for her, but even Moriarty's network was clueless of her whereabouts; some believed her dead, others were simply ignorant.

Call it sentiment, vanity, foolishness, call it what you will, but after a while, it was easier to live under the assumption that she'd died than to accept the possibility that she had _chosen_ never to see him again. If she'd died, it would mean that he had failed, failed to beat Moriarty or whomever meant her harm, failed to save her, failed _her_. It guts him in ways he can't put to words every time his mind conjures the image of her deceased body, but even so it is still a thousand times more bearable than the alternative. If she's alive, then he wouldn't have failed, he would've _lost. _Not just the game they play, but in every sense of the word.

It would not matter that he is Sherlock Holmes; he'd just be another man, boring, unimportant,_ordinary._

"His Right Honourable Lord Henry Gibbs, 1st Baron of Aldenham, and Miss. Katherine Wolfe."

At the doorman's loud and enthusiastic announcement, all eyes turn towards the couple. Here she is, three quarters of a decade later, perfect and whole, creamy skin glowing under the chandelier. There are rubies and diamonds in her perfectly coiffed hair, black like raven's wings. The gown she wears is blood red, with a rather daring low-cut bodice trimmed by a subtle bit of delicate lace work and unconventional sleeves. In a sea of cream and pastels, she stands out like the Spanish Inquisition.

Katherine. Wolfe.

Faced with this new revelation, Sherlock has no choice but to admit that he lost her, that that she changed her mind. That she had abandoned him, Hamish, and whatever foolish fantasy they had shared that night in Montenegro.

Suddenly, a surge of anger threatens to overwhelm him. He wants to march over there and shake her until she explains herself. He wants to throw up the _agony _he carried for the last seven years and force her to swallow it so she can suffer as he suffered. For a second, all he wants to do is hurt The Woman, but a cool touch of Molly's silk-clad hand against his brings him down from his wrathful state of mind.

"Sweetheart, are you alright?"

Sherlock turns to his wife, who stares up at him worriedly. He can only imagine what his face looks like.

"Fine," he lies, eyes fixed on Lord Aldenham and Irene as they approach.

"Sherlock, my boy, glad you can make it." Lord Aldenham's happiness is spilling over the brim, but Sherlock cannot greet his joy with a congratulatory smile. He doesn't try anymore to hide his stony visage.

Irene Adler is standing five feet from him, and she has yet to acknowledge his existence. The anti-climactic nature of their reunion would be laughable had he an ounce of mirth left in him.

"Kate, my dear, allow me to introduce to you Lord Holmes's younger brother, the famous Detective Sherlock Holmes and his lovely wife, Molly."

Of course Irene would address Molly first, "Mrs. Holmes, very sweet to meet you. I simply love your necklace, is it a gift from your husband?"

It is. Molly is wearing the amethyst necklace that belonged to Sherlock's paternal grandmother. There is no doubt that Irene deduced its origins the second she laid her eyes on it. The Holmes family heirloom in the Holmes family colour worn on another woman's neck – Sherlock wonders how it makes her feel. He prays to the god he doesn't believe in that it hurts. Please let it hurt.

Molly blushes and thanks her, "Yes. It is. You are too kind, Miss Wolfe. Your dress, it's…."

"Different?" Irene smiles, which can be passed off as playful, but Sherlock sees its dangerous edge. She reaches out and touches Molly's elbow in a friendly gesture, and Sherlock has to bite on his tongue to stop himself from pulling Molly back from Irene. Her touch is poison - sweet, intoxicating poison - that could leave you dead with an ignorant smile still on your face. "Please, call me Kate."

"Miss Wolf-, Kate, this is my husband."

Finally, when it cannot be avoided any longer, Irene Adler turns her body and faces Sherlock Holmes.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet the infamous consulting detective; even in America your name proceeds you."

Sherlock forces himself to stand still against his body's instinct to reel back from the whiplash of the sound of her voice, familiar and alien all at once. Her American accent, the crisp, articulate pronunciations of an educated woman from Manhattan, is flawless. He can't find falsehood in it anywhere, nothing to suggest that she wasn't born and raised in Upper Eastside. Her mouth moves, and Irene's voice comes out - wrong, wrong, wrong! - filling the deafening silence in his mind with meaningless pleasantry as if they are strangers. Oh her eyes, those lying blue eyes, how they gaze upon his face and do not flicker with guilt at all.

_This is a game, as it has always been a game, and even after all this time, I am still losing… _

She extends her hand towards him – not silk-covered, her gloves are a thin layer of black lace and organza, racy and so very much her. She has talented and able hands that knows exactly how to pluck at his taut and fragile heartstring, either to make him whine with pain or to make him sing in exultation.

Her shapely wrists, its delicateness concealing deft and power, had once been the mistress to his lips - it had stolen no less kisses from him than her mouth. The slight curve of bone, an artful protrusion at the terminus of her ulna, now poses before him at the most enticing angle. Sherlock sucks in a careful breath, eyes flicking up to meet hers. Behind those icy blues, he sees the sharp, unyielding thorns.

_So you want to play?_

He catches her hand, noting the large diamond engagement ring on her finger,and smiles all too brightly, "Miss Wolfe, enchanté."

_Let's play. _

* * *

AN: Ah, I forgot to post the second chapter on FF, and I only did it on AO3, so I posted second and third chapter all together. :) Thanks for reading.


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